


Schrödinger's Lifeline

by OneHandedBooks



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 05, episode 502, mostly hurt / a modicum of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23941660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneHandedBooks/pseuds/OneHandedBooks
Summary: Eliot writes a letter.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	Schrödinger's Lifeline

**Author's Note:**

> This fic now has art!! An amazing commission from wow_then/Evelyn (Check it out on a big screen for the details!) https://twitter.com/lunggwai/status/1345473152604897281?s=19

“Dearest Quentin.”

Eliot stared at the words then scratched them out.

“Dear Quentin.”

A sharp stroke of impatient ink, beetle-black and glistening.

“King Kwentin.”

Eliot tapped the shaft of the quill against the rim of the cut glass inkwell. Amusing, but completely off as far as tone. So, no.

He sipped reluctantly at a glass of Fillorian brandy. Brandy substitute. Brandy hate crime really. Winced at the vicious deadfruit burn and swallowed anyway. Any port and all that. He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height to address the letter properly, lifting his chin and preening for an invisible audience. Determined. Imposing. Regal.

Regal-ish.

He sighed and slumped back over the rough-hewn desk. Dipped the quill into the inkwell again.

“Dear Q. Peaches and plums, motherfucker.”

Strong opening. Clever, effective, succinct. _although…i did just use that one._ No then. Another quick dark slash.

“Dear Q. On the night you take the Monster to The Seam, you will be destroyed by magic. Please take whatever precautions are necessary to prevent this terrible disaster.”

Eliot snickered. He could just see Q’s face light up at the reference. Super nerd.

His mouth tightened suddenly, trembling, and he drove his teeth into his lip to stop his eyes from welling over. He swiped at them with his palms and clicked his tongue in irritation at the kohl streaking his hands. _well that’s going to ruin a perfect smoky eye_. He crushed the draft in his fist and dropped it.

Eliot gestured, conjuring another piece of fine linen paper from thin air. He twisted his fingers and pulled upwards slowly, drawing midnight ink from nowhere to refill the well. It was obedient enough, now that it knew him. 

“Dear Q. You wouldn’t believe all the freaky time shit Jane had in her cottage. That I stole. To save Fillory, of course. And to break Margo out of jail. Listen, it’s a long story. Anyways, when I figured out the deal with these magic postage stamps... Ok, so it was Margo who recognized them- I swear I’m gonna read the Fillory books…”

_come back q and i’ll read all the books. we'll read them together._

He tore the letter into confetti and scattered it.

Eliot stripped a thicker piece of paper from the air and uttered a short guttural phrase, forcing it to fold itself into a rough-edged envelope. He rolled his knuckles in sequence, floating the newborn stationary over back of his hand without magic, like one of Q’s dorky coin tricks. He dipped his quill and addressed the envelope “To: Quentin Coldwater Before He Went To The Seam.”

He dragged his thumb across the enchanted stamp to seal it to the paper and memory crashed over him, sharp and shocking. When he really understood what the stamp could do. What it could buy. That he would absolutely use it to ransom Q from death, even if it meant leaving Josh and Fen and Fillory itself to their dark fates.

“Dear Q. Jane said you died. Every time. That you fought and you died. And even when you won, you died. And if she intervened to save you, then everyone else would die and The Beast would win. And so she couldn’t. And I couldn’t.”

 _destiny struggles to reassert the pattern that was meant to be._ What’s that, a poem? Some bit of philosophical fuckery Fogg dragged up once from the bottom of a bottle? Eliot shook his head. Q was right; destiny is bullshit. Fuck destiny.

Eliot gestured leisurely and manifested another sheet of paper. The sound of the quill filled the small room- stroke and scratch and slash. Paper crushed and stained piled up around the desk.

“Dear Q. I miss you.”

“Dear Q. You are going to save the world. And then you are going to die. And that can’t happen. It just can’t.”

_it cant it cant i cant_

Eliot yanked his inkstained hands through his hair. Picked up the quill and struck the last two lines. Continued.

“So listen up. About Everett. Surprise, he’s the Big Bad and you need to stop him. Preferably before he makes it to the mirror realm. But no matter what happens, you can’t use magic in the mirror realm. Margo told me once that the difference between a live hero and a dead moron was one dumb decision. So if you have the chance to be brave in there or to be smart, you know what to do. Or, no, you don’t actually, which is how we got into this situation to begin with. For fuck’s sake, why does it always have to be Harry Potter and The Charge of the Light Brigade with you?”

Eliot stared at the letter, his face flushed and furious. He crumpled it savagely and tossed it, then sagged back in his chair.

_god, but you loved doing magic, Q._

He stretched his arms out and rolled his fingers in a sinuous wave. Brought his palms together, interlaced his fingers slowly, one at a time, then pushed hard, hands opened out and down, shoving magic into the mess of crumpled paper balls strewn around his feet. He pressed the heels of his hands together, thumbs together, pinkies together. His fingers bending back like lily petals. He lifted his hands carefully and levitated the whole company of rejected letters. He made them circle the room like sparrows. Made them scatter like stars, flock like clouds. He guided them to gather, to spell out QUENTIN and HELP and FUCK, then yanked his power back and let them fall, bouncing and skidding across the cool slate floor with a whispery rattle.

He knocked back the last of the terrible brandy and put his head in his hands, staring blankly down at the desk until the afternoon sun began to cross the small stone window, dragging evening shadows behind it like a cloak.

Eliot rested his head on his folded arm. He rolled the quill back and forth along the desk with the tip of his finger. The feather curling against the rugged wood with a sigh. He allowed himself to imagine Quentin striding victorious out of the mirror realm with that cocky little smile, his letter held aloft at a jaunty angle, The Seam closing neatly behind him. All the monsters gone and everyone safe. Q at his bedside in Brakebills, holding his hand. Say hallelujah.

And what if Quentin gets the letter and it changes everything and everything still goes wrong? What if it changes nothing? What if they really are in the endgame now and the past is nothing but variations where Q dies, and dies, and dies?

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut tight and shoved back tears with the heels of his hands. He conjured another sheet of paper, smoothed it methodically, and started again.

“Dear Q. Please don’t go. If you go you’ll take my heart with you. I didn’t think I needed it, but it turns out that I do.”

He crossed it out.

“Dear Q. I loved you for a really long time.”

_i never got the chance. i never even got the chance..._

"Dear Q, do you remember…"

Dear Q, I remember

_the smell of your skin when you fell asleep on the tile- sunwarm and clean. and salty as the wind off the eastern sea. and sultry with summer fruit. and chalky with a thousand colors that added up to nothing. the tattered quilt on our bed and the sound of rain above us on the thatched roof. the spark of your magic under my hands and the press of your mouth, sweet with honey from the hives we built and from honeywine and_

_andpeachesandplumspeachesandplumspeachesandplums_

“Dear Q.”

* * *

“I can’t send it,” Eliot forced himself to say. “But I, I can’t let it go.”

“You want my help?” Alice asked hesitantly.

Eliot nodded.

He and Alice held the envelope delicately over the improbable abyss. Eliot’s fingers tightened briefly on the paper and his eyes fluttered closed.

_Q, when I’m braver_

The letter, unsent unread, slipped from his hand and tumbled down the long stone throat, chasing Quentin’s soul into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> "Destiny struggles to reassert the pattern that was meant to be" is from Lightning by Dean Koontz. I read it a million years ago and that phrase has been kicking around my head ever since. Now I think I've finally pinned it down in the place it wanted to be.


End file.
